That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me. . . . . Locks, bars, and solitude together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

In durance vile.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

Prison'd in a parlour snug and small, Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall.

I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.

I have been studying how I may compareThe prison where I live unto the world.